Chapter VIII
REMEMBERING THE EARLY DAYS
THE celebration was going merrily when Fred rode up to the “Ward House,” a large log structure set prominently among the scattered cabins that made the new village. It was used for all public gatherings by the Mormon colonists.
He was not very late, however; for Dan, who stayed at home as usual, had taken a brotherly interest and insisted that Brownie be given a rest while Fred ride Chief, Dan’s best saddle horse. This was a rare privilege; but Dan went further. When Fred had opened his old valise to find clothes fit for the occasion, he revealed so scant a wardrobe that his friend, without seeming to see the lack, threw up the till of his own well-stocked trunk and urged the boy to help himself.
“Oh, come, now; no foolishness,” he said imperatively, as Fred protested.
“I know you haven’t had any money to blow in on cowboy finery. I used to do it, though; and these are some of the leavings of my sporty days; now help yourself. They’re not much use to me any more.” Dan did not tell what had sobered him. The death of his sweetheart a few years before had cast a lasting shadow over his life.
The shame of shining in borrowed plumes was largely lost in such open-hearted generosity, and Fred, under his companion’s insistence and selection, soon found himself a smartly dressed cowboy indeed. He could hardly voice his thanks as he mounted Chief to ride away.
The night was brilliant with stars; the moon had not yet risen, but was sending its promises of a beautiful night by tipping the dark hills with silver. The air, fresh and fragrant, turned to a gentle breeze as Chief, taking the bits, leaped along the echoing road. It was an exquisite ride. Fred let the fine horse keep his own swift pace till suddenly he galloped out of the timber that lined the creek, and the lights of the village flashed before him.
It was easy to find the dance hall. Lamps were blazing from every window, and the music was ringing as he rode up. A herd of saddle ponies, and a motley collection of buckboards, lumber wagons, and “white tops” were ranged along the fences. Everybody seemed to be out. The meeting house was full of happy celebrators.
Tying Chief securely to a fence, he made his way hesitantly toward the crowd. A feeling of bashfulness swept over him. He had stopped, half tempted not to push his way into the strange crowd, when some one slapped him on the shoulder, and a tipsy tongue said heartily:
“Hello, Tiddy, where the devil did ye drop from? No matter, you’re here; good fer ye, lad, come on.”